


Glitter

by Paintedinsin (Mad_as_rabbits)



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Brendon, Bruises, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, Infatuation, Kink, Light BDSM, Love, M/M, Multi, Pain, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Violence, Will update tags/warnings as story progresses, friendships, self discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_as_rabbits/pseuds/Paintedinsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'll be the most beautiful thing that I've ever hurt."</p><p>Brendon is used to accepting the type of love that he thinks he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> :Please note that tags/warnings will be updated as chapters are added.

His pale skin is marbled into a painted galaxy; swirls of dark purples and splashes of faded blues that explode throughout Brendon’s milky-way flesh. Nova stars bursting into life in the constellation of the inner seams of his arms, combining with the thick orbit of blacks and grays that grace his wrists. There’s an eclipse burned just above his collarbone, once a passionate energy now left cold and unforgotten to most, but not to him. 

Tracing his fingertips over the bruising, Brendon barely winces when he discovers that a few still ache with that dull pain when pressed against. The gentle brush of fingers, the sharper edges of a body, or the harsher contact of his form hitting a brick wall, it didn’t matter anymore. Every scuff held its own story, a tale that Brendon would often lay there and replay in his head with a thumb circling the purple blossom on his jaw. But every conclusion ended the same—with him left battered in one sense or another, feeling sore and the cracks of his skin broken. 

The low throb in each embedded memory brought on a thicker wave of nausea that would wash around Brendon’s gut. The pain that often left him wiping an over-spill of blood from his own lips also brought on a spark of something new; a tingling of life inside fragile veins that combined with the pure rush of adrenaline kept him crawling back for more. 

The high sting of nails scraping along the tender patches of his figure as they drag in deep (from inner forearms and the creases of his elbows, to the toned canvas of his stomach, and the quivering of his luscious thighs) had hurt enough for him to nearly pierce his own bottom lip from biting down so hard. Both from the raking of rough hands or sharpened manicures causing the blood to rapidly swim to the surface, and the cloud of pleasure that started to radiate throughout his chest, seeping down into the depth of his loins. 

Brendon looks down at the remains of red lines that linger across his stomach, still blushing an angry red from the several courses. Placing his palm against it, he can feel that warmth, how the heat feels welcomed and uncomfortable at the same time. But although it looked full of hate and riddled with actions beyond violence, it didn’t appear that way in those doughy brown eyes of Brendon’s. He never felt so grounded and appreciative as he did once he could sit there, admiring the artwork that somebody else’s hands had created upon him and that dry ache that blessed the coming of another bruise. 

Smoke swirls up from clenched fingers that perch his burning cigarette. It's light grey dances past the beam of lights that shine from across the street, a Chinese restaurant's name flickering by the letter through the growing darkness. They never seemed to care about the petite male that appears to keep hovering out on his rickety balcony at the oddest times of the night in just his boxers, if clothes at all, and so Brendon no longer questioned his position upon this scene any longer. With his veins thrumming with that after-delight and areas of him still shivering from a bittersweet bite, he couldn't care less about what passersbyes thought. 

There, he'd simply watch on from his third floor apartment, lost in the blur of satisfaction and a lung full of marijuana. The flashing lights and outreach of the moon overhead cause every bruise and indent to flicker, too-- making the beauty of another's signature to sway and dance in the eyes of the outer world, and he couldn't care from up there, where people stroll on by like ants. In this picture Brendon was invincible, a creature of enlightenment and knowledge, loved in ways that no other man could ever compare, and there'd he'd like to stay. He wished that he could always feel this treasured. 

A ding from the clock behind the glass sliding doors declare it's just reached midnight. One by one, the Chinese sign begins to switch off into a state of slumber, the flashing red dying off into nothing but black. And with one last drag of his joint, he crushes it's tip against the cold chill of the railing before sending it tumbling to the filth trodden curb down below. 

Now, he'd try to sleep, wrapped up just right enough that he'll hopefully feel the bruises along his side behind closed eyelids, and dream of a time that someday, all of this might mean something more.

___________________________________________________

Pete obviously knew about Brendon's little... 'hobby.' He didn't get to be Brendon's best friend without finding out about such a thing, and of course, in one of the most surreal and mind-blowing ways possible.  
It's wasn't every day that Wentz had walked in to somebody he cared about being choked with a belt while butt naked. And back then, all he had to worry about was if his pal was being ganged up on, or worse, doing something unforgivable to himself.  
In a way, discovering that Brendon was just a ridiculously kinky fucker had put his mind to ease. On the other hand, it only made the doubt worse. Surely it had to take a lot of trust to put something so full of caution into somebody else's hands, especially if said person is merely a stranger that he'd picked up through some dodgy pickup site.  
yet, whenever Pete had tried to bring up such contemplation, Brendon would have lightly shrugged it off.  
"You either get it, or you don't. Taking that risk is all a part of it. There's more respect there than simply beating the shit out of each other. There's rules, too." He had responded once, and pete felt like keeping his mouth shut about the topic from there on. Who was he to judge something that he neither knew, nor really wanted to get himself into? As long as Brendon was happy, that's all that had mattered. 

They're both shoveling fries into their mouths, Brendon's smothered in ketchup as he dips and bites. The food is greasy, as always, but it's become a tradition of sorts for the two gents to hit the local fastfood place and indulge in something unhealthy. And as far as Brendon is concerned, a bit of extra salt went down nicely after a good night previously. 

The long black sleeves of his button down shirt hide away all of the tell-tale signs that are present along his arms and chest. Still, to hide the murky blues via his knuckles is easier said than done without wearing thick gloves, which is a big 'no-no' for when it comes to eating with his hands. The bright overhead lighting keeps catching the bruising, making it glisten like an oil spill, and although he knows that Pete knows, it doesn't ease the slight tension in his shoulders whenever he finds Pete's eyes glued to it, the corners of his eyes softly creased in speculation with every motion. 

He gradually lifts a red-tinged fry to his lips, dark irises watching his friend's, and when Wentz's sight doesn't even budge from the glossy shades at the back of his hand, Brendon drops it back to the table with a light 'thud.'

"Dude, quit staring. You're putting me off of my food." 

Pete blinks from the confrontation, as if he didn't even realize his actions, and instantly looks away to regather his grease-fest into a more subtle pile.  
"I wasn't staring! I know you're pretty n' all, but you're no competition to my burger. Don't flatter yourself." 

Brendon scoffs, rolling his eyes and finally taking another bite. He locates a small dollop of sauce on his thumb and brings it directly to his mouth, a dart of his pink tongue all that's needed to lap it clean off.  
"You sure that you don't want to eat me up, instead?" 

"Maybe for dessert, Cupcake." Pete quirks back in their usual amusement, earning them both a childlike grin and boyish laughter. And it's nice like this, just the two of them; shoving their face with junk food and snorting over dick jokes.  
But then, Brendon will tilt his head too far to one side to grab a fresh napkin or to reach for his straw, and Pete'll spot the darkening just below the shirt collar, carefully hidden away if not for the shine of the light directly above their booth. It's enough to tighten his gut with that almost brotherly concern, with brows lowering and lips forming that thin line. 

"Hey, Bren. Uh... You know, I just wanted to check that, um-" 

"I know, Pete. Yeah..." Brendon cut him off, his tone lowered to match the seriousness. He's not looking across the table, avoiding whatever eye-contact that the other is offering, but he'll tell himself that he's not ashamed or embarrassed. They've always been open about everything, honest till the end, and he won't be ashamed. But still, he keeps his gaze low, idly creating a pattern from the left over ketchup that had spilled onto his tray. "I'm good, y'know? Yeah. Okay." 

Pete swallows down his next words. Yet again, he finds himself in that position of uncertainty; to push on, or leave it be?  
So instead, he drops his own line of sight back to the table with a single nod of the head, understanding. Even so, he can still see the ugly marks that decorate the skin beyond Brendon's attire, as if he had placed the damned things there himself. Doesn't it haunt Brendon the same way?

They eat in silence for a short while, letting the surrounding noise of chattering customers and the chart music echoing from the corner speakers become more dominant. There's a family of four in the seats across from them; two little kids kicking up a fuss over the flavor of their cheap icecream and two regret filled parents wiping sweat from their foreheads.  
Somebody from the kitchen drops something shifted from porcelain, the shattering sound bringing the whole restaurant into a gloomy cheer and slow claps. 

Brendon looks up from his now cold burger and instantly meets Pete's eyes, taking in the silent questioning and growing worry that is often brought on from the wisdom of his own mistakes. It's a plea, and Urie can tell so, read it loud and clear, but he's also stubborn with his youth as well as reckless, and if Wentz thinks that he's going to back down so easily, he clearly isn't wise enough. 

He counts to three, waiting for the other to speak first, and when there's nothing but those sad looking puppy eyes, B takes the bite first.  
With one gesture towards pete's side and an arch of the eyebrow, he finally inquires; 

"So, are you going to eat that?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : WARNING; brief scene of non-consensual sex with violence at the end of this chapter.

Everything was pink.  
The length of hair that his fingers clung to. The shade of her lips and the whimpers that left it, the lap of her tongue against pearly teeth. The fragrance of berries that he could taste upon her neck. The flush of her cheeks, handprints against her hips and the tint of her nipples showing through the lace. 

She never brought anything new to the deck. In fact, Audrey was as familiar as his own reflection by now. They'd been doing this for a while, sharing body heat and those waves of ecstasy. Using each other to ride that tide. 

Brendon knew what she liked and how to give it, and just as importantly, so did she. She had never been afraid to ask or demand for the certain tilt or for how rough, and he had grown attached to how she would praise him; gasping his name and her grip on him tightening. 

Audrey wasn't really the brutal type. Not in the way that Brendon favored, at least. She had never brought a solid object into contact, nor purposely went out of her way to humiliate him, in public nor for her own selfish joy. But really, they never hung around for long after their fix was done. It was a quick fuck here, a few hour sessions split between shitty motel rooms and bathroom stalls the next. There was no time for chit-chat or pleasantries in their books. 

Though he couldn't complain with the lack of words when her mouth was delicious enough on his skin, and if he worked her right, she'd been responsive enough to maybe nip at his earlobes with the pinch of her front teeth, or perhaps catch the shorter hair at the nape of his hairline, tug on it till he was riddled in goosebumps.

The lighting made her look like a Goddess, freckled skin that he'd press his lips to with every roll of the hips. The shadows would stretch from wall to wall, multiplying their silhouette, dark figures that moved with just as much passion as they did. It fueled him to carry on, to watch themselves upon this puppet-show, a movie without an electric screen. 

And when she'd reach her orgasm, it almost sounding like it could be love.  
But this was not that tale. For as soon as he had buried himself inside of her warmth, grasping on so harshly that it brought tears to her eyes, the magic was over. They use each other to brace their shaking, Audrey pinned against the wall with her slim legs wrapped around the curve of his waist, and he'd breathe into the groove of her neck till her thighs stopped trembling.  
If she's lucky, he hasn't bitten down onto her shoulder too hard this time. She hated it when he left an indent. It gave her something to remember him by once she returned to her home of luxury, and that's the last thing that the pampered Queen wanted. Memories of her regrets. 

Brendon removes himself from their sticky embrace and tries to hide his dismay at how lacking it all feels nowadays. No throbbing in his muscles and not even a claw mark in sight; it was hard to compare this to his usual taste tests. This with Audrey wasn't even a quick lick in comparison. And yet, they were endlessly stuck in this loop of neither wanting to admit it, but somehow needing each other. Even if it was to simply fuck out whatever was troubling their minds, borrowing their bodies and nothing more. 

She's looking at him now, through the mass of bubblegum pink and speckled skin that resembles glitter. A hot mess of a Princess, that's what Brendon had always visioned her. Always in this way, with lipstick smudged and panties being edged back onto slender hips. 

"You handing yourself out as the city chew toy now?"  
She's flicking one frosted nail up and down, gesturing to the barely remaining bruises that still grace Brendon's form. The majority of them had faded by now, especially the ones via his arms (thank fuck.) but a sweet collection still were present at his hipbones; evidence of a much more electric time, where he liked to push his thumb against and feel his pulse rush all over again. 

He's already stepping away, desposing of the stained condom and retrieving his boxers from her couch, tugging them back on one foot at a time. His spine arches, the dim lights glowing up the shape of his muscles and faded lines of his ribs. A solid purple shape stands out just above his asscheek, proud and bold.  
"What's it got to do with you if I am?" 

Audrey pulls on her dress, doesn't fasten up the tiny buttons that ladder up the front. Already, she's closing herself off, as he is to her. Her arms cross and her eyes grow dark from beneath her lashes, counting down the seconds till he's fully clothed and out of her door.  
"It's not that I care about where you're sticking it, Urie. But from the looks of you, I would like to know if you've become a living corpse. For disease purposes." 

Dressed now apart from the last jiggle of his left shoe, he laughs a heavy sound, dry in it's amusement.  
"You wasn't complaining when this corpse was making you cum." He muses, something accusing behind both his voice and features. He rubs it in by giving her a quick yet brisk peck to the cheek on his way past, earning a scoff and expression of disgust from the woman. 

"That's if you really DID make me cum!" She calls after him, tone matching his dark humor, and all she hears is his laughter bounce from the hallway of her home before the door slams shut and feet hit the gravel of her driveway. 

It's a lonely sound, despite it's liveliness, and her grimace softly changes into a light smile as she watches his car pull out into the road through the livingroom bay window. They both breathe in air that isn't tainted with the other's scent and start to view their days back with reality.

\------------------------------------------

The leather digs in tight to the corners of Brendon's mouth, pinching at the delicate folds of cushioned flesh that's shaped around the large red ball. It glistens from his own saliva, the smell of sex filling his slight flared nostrils.  
He can't make a sound apart from the gluttonous moans that erupt from behind the rubber. No communication apart from the occasional low grunt and the rolling of the white in his eyes as eyelids flutter above the sockets with bliss.  
His wrists are accompanied with the cold clasps of cuffs, keeping his toned arms tied above his head to the bed's rickety frame from where he lays upon his back, legs hooked around another. When his heart beats fast enough, he can feel his own pulse rocket against the gleaming metal pressed firmly into the veins, and Brendon has never felt so alive. 

Dallon knew how to entertain. He knew how to hit the right spot, how to make Brendon beg for it.  
In this state of otherwordly pleasure every time the taller male would thrust into him, stretch him open wider and forcing him to feel that burn; Brendon could believe this was what love was. To forever feel this full, this over-responsive, this fuckin' worshiped by another being. 

Blue eyes, now glazed with a sheet of dwindling grey from the filter of lust, fix onto the deeper brown ones that appear so large and gorgeously rich from above his gagged mouth.  
"Remember... No cumming yet." Dallon doesn't stop the motion of his hips and pelvis even as he speaks, the words laced in tiny broken exhales every time he found himself buried contently into the younger man's warmth. "Not till I've finished. Understand?"

Brendon does the only thing that he can do as a response and nods sharply, a mumble of a groan rippling from his throat as he applies some pressure back onto Dallon's dick. A tease, nonetheless of his bounding and strict demands, and his irises glint mischievously when he gets to witness Dallon's mouth part open from the supplied friction. 

This only spurs him to go on harder, large hands grasping firmly to the width of Brendon's ribs. He's balancing on his knees, practically using Urie's lifted lower half as support as he pushes on. His thighs crush against Dallon's waist, keeping him locked in place with the only limbs he had available at the time, and when his dick continuously brushed close to that certain spot that made him sweat and writhe against the tangled bedsheets, Brendon would tilt his head back, chin towards the crumbling ceiling as he arches back into the too-small mattress. 

The bed board rattles with every gesture against the wall, the sound of rustic metal scraping throughout the small open-planned apartment. It's an old thing, pretty sure that Brendon had kept the darn thing when he had moved in several years ago, and the lack of mattress fitting into the suitable frame only adds to the noise of disorganization. But of course, they couldn't care less for the loud evidence of their meeting with one dick in the other and Dallon's teeth lightly nipping at the exposed flushed skin on Brendon's torso. 

"You're so fuckin' hot like this, B. You should see-" He's breathing against Brendon's slicked up form as they still grind and move, creating another echoing 'bang, bang' as the bed hits the wall. A plant pot shakes from it's home on the coffee table, edges closer and closer to it's ledge before one more 'thud' sends it crashing down onto the rug. The pot explodes, creating an outburst of dry soil that smothers the fibers, broken shards sticking out like sharks upon a stormy sea. 

He's almost too far gone to notice the signs of destruction, but not that senseless that he didn't overhear the sound of footsteps from outside of his room. By the time he manages to blink his eyes back open, the scuffling of shoes is joined by a cautioned tapping at the door, which is luckily enough to pause Dallon from his task of getting off. 

"Whos that?" He whispers with breathing heavy down to Brendon, his erection still deep inside his ass and a bead of sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose. 

Brendon blinks back up at him as a reply, eyebrow arched in a question of his own, as if he could offer anything else while in this condition. His chest is panting softly, rising up and down in an attempt to be grounded, which is still pretty difficult to focus when he has Dallon filling him up. He's sure that he can feel the other's pulse throb from inside of him and is reluctant to remove himself from it at this point. Not when there was a deadline to meet before he could get his own satisfaction. 

Then, there's a new voice that joins them as it calls through the thin wood.  
"Hey, Brendon? Are you in?"

Brendon recognized the caller; it's Josh from across the hall. Friendly and a proud owner of an awesome record collection that they often shared and exchanged LPs over. 

They stare at each other for what feels like minutes, dragged out and painful. 

To his mild surprise, Dallon reaches up to pluck the sloppy ball gag from Brendon's sore mouth. He instantly adjusts his jaw from the contrast, that dull ache seeping through the bone and muscle. 

"Say something." He hisses lowly and sways his head into the direction of the livingarea. "Tell him to come back later or something."

With a shaken nod, Brendon manages to add enough moisture back to the walls of his mouth and his dry tongue to stifle words. 

"Yeah, uh, I'm here. What's up?" He calls on out, silently pleading to whoever that'll listen that Josh doesn't decide to invite himself in. 

There's more shuffling from the other side of the wall, another voice mumbling. Probably Tyler's, Brendon concluded. Those two were never found too far apart. Especially with living with each other, maybe they was fucking? It was a thought that Brendon had often wondered about; tried to sniff out, even. But he never heard the commotion of sex (good sex, at least) and he never really noticed much signs of affection, apart from that time he spotted them walking out of their room holding hands before escaping down the hall, or when they bump hips on their way inside. 

"We couldn't help hearing some... distress." Tyler's voice speaks more clearer now, the words causing Dallon to lift his brow to Brendon in a expression of mild amusement. It made Brendon wish that his hands wasn't currently tied, otherwise he would he happily slapped him straight off the bed. 

"Oh, really? Distress? Nah, man. All's good in here, honest!" He has to bite back the laughter that's daring to mingle. Dallon beginning to readjust himself not exactly helping with Brendon's clarity. "No need to worry about u- me." 

There's a short moment where all is silent apart from the birds singing from the tree outside Brendon's balcony. Still, too long of a moment that involved Brendon holding his breath with a mixture of uncertainty and eagerness. 

"Well, okay..." Josh seems to have accepted Brendon's statement, and the two can nearly relax. But then, an added, "We just heard something smashing-" 

"Yeah, something definitely broke around here." 

"-And we thought it could have been like, important or something. Just wanted to check you're alright with everything..." 

"It sounded like it came from your way, man. You sure you're cool?" 

Brendon glances down to where Dallon is still attached to him, impatience starting to crawl within his blood as his own hard-on stands with discomfort against his lower belly. Sure, totally cool. One-Hundred-Percent chilled. 

"Listen, I'm positive, guys. Really, I..." He catches sight of the plaster that's been bashed from the wall and the sorry remains of his now diseased plant. "I accidentally knocked over my houseplant. That's it. I'm fine, though. I'll just..." Turning back to Dallon, he bites down upon his bottom lip, eyebrows knitted together and eyes wide as he demonstrates the pure face of 'no idea what I'm saying' reincarnated. "I'll guess I'll just stay in and mourn over this one a while before buying a new one." 

Another round of uneasy silence through walls and Brendon has to press his face into the inner of his forearm to stop himself from bursting with laughter right there. 

"Houseplant... right." He barely hears Tyler utter. It doesn't help with the gigglefit. 

"Well, as long as you're alright, Brendon." Josh speaks up, actually sounding somewhat sympathetic. "Sorry for disturbing. We'll see you later? At the club?" 

Dallon's already returned to a steady rhythm, catching Brendon off guard when he chokes out a swift, "Alright, dudes. I, fuck- See you later!" 

Footsteps lead away, turning distant, until it's just the sound of rusty bed springs and the cuffs rattling above him. The pool of heat in his gut didn't have chance to cool down for long because Dallon's not teasing now, but going in for the kill; the head of his dick hitting that sweet spot with such dominance that it makes Brendon see stars against the peeling wallpaper of his room. 

"Let me finish," Dallon licks the dampness from the top of his lip. His eyes are creased, focused as he plows on, determined to complete this race without any more interruptions. 

But in his attempts to reach the might finish line, it's also bringing Brendon that one step closer. Every thrust brought him to a mess, mouth gaping open now from the lack of gag; left discarded around his collarbones like a fashion accessory. His skin is on fire, insides coiled tight with electricity, knuckles flushing red from where they cling to the frame; and when his own stressed cock keeps stroking along Dallon's lean stomach with every forced bump up and down the mattress, he's already leaking from the constant of it all. 

"Dal, I can't-" He tries to warn, but it's quickly shut off from his knees being brought up higher, pushed towards his own body. Dallon's all over him, in him, fucking him like his life depended on it, and Brendon can't last much longer with this intensity. 

"Wait- I've got it, just..." 

His vision is already blurring white now, a swarming burn that sweeps over him from head to toe. His calves dig in deeper to the fine curve of Dallon's lower back as Brendon's own spine arches from the bed, jaw going slack, cock spilling white- so much fuckin' white heat, an orgasm so strong it tears through him like a white sea. 

And then it's still. 

He's riding that high, head above the clouds, blood pounding in his ears. Even without sight, he can still feel Dallon inside of him, feel his panting and fingers indenting the shape of his hipbones. 

When the haze fades, he's met with those baby blues again. This time, there's sharpness to them that instantly cuts through his little 'happy place.' 

"What was that?" His tone is low, far from amused now. It's cold contrast seems odd compared to the warmth of his body against Brendon's. "I told you not to cum yet." 

"Sorry..." Brendon utters, still floating in some sex-blurred limbo. Though he can see the dismay in his eyes, he's too content to worry about it right now. Just let him enjoy this state of Heaven, probably the closest that he'll ever get. 

"Brendon..." A frown shapes Dallon's features.

"What? You did good, baby. You nearly made me split in two, congratulations." Urie sighs dreamily, nuzzles the side of his cheek against his arm like a cat that had just gotten it's milk. His cum feels strange as it dries upon his stomach and thighs that are still loosely draped via the older man's hips. But it's nice, like this, everything light and relaxed. He could get used to this. 

But then, the sunshine and rainbows shift to something sculpted from heavy lead and a bitter taste when a tensed hand is swiftly clasped around Brendon's throat, thumb harshly pressed across his windpipe. It startles him enough to strike a high pitched shriek before all sounds are fully closed off by Dallon's rough embrace, and just like with the gag on, he's resorted back to grunts and whimpers, this time fueled by fear and confusion. 

"You little shit..." Dallon's baring teeth, leaning down close enough that Brendon can see the muscles in his outreached arm tense beneath his pale skin. There's definitely anger burning in those otherwise icy eyes, and he can feel it with the clenching of the fist at his neck, making it difficult to breathe. He'd claw at his knuckles or attempt to push him away if it wasn't for his still bound arms, dangling pointlessly out of the way; useless. 

"Dal.... You're hurt-" 

"Hurting you?" Dallon overpowers him in speech as well as body. He drags his thumb further up the jutting of Brendon's adam apple, applies enough pressure against the bulge to make Brendon's eyes clamp closed and show gritted teeth. His voice is drenched in sarcasm, "But Bren, isn't that what you like? Me hurting you?" 

Brendon tries to shake his head in protest; no, no, not like this. Not out of fury. Not without consent. 

"I gave you one task, and you couldn't even do that! You're a selfish little prick, you know that? It's always gotta' be about you." Dallon practically spits at the smaller man now pinned beneath him from brute force. All the fun and games have faded to this deadly fire, a blaze without control. "So for once, you're going to put ME first, Bren. I'm going to get what you promised me." 

The hand around Brendon's throat is painfully tight, a vice that brought a cloud of darkness instead of angels singing in a Heavenly choir. Without no set rules, it filled Urie with pure freight; how did Dallon know when enough was enough? 

But then, when Dallon starts to shift his weight back into him again, rough and without hesitation, it dawns on Brendon that Dallon no longer cared about any sense of well-being for him. 

Every push in felt over sensitive now that Brendon had already climaxed; the muscles raw and screaming out in refusal to the obstruction. His now flaccid cock was sore on the upstroke of Dallon's belly, making him hiss and groan in protest with the little air that he was getting. 

His head felt beyond light, almost none-existent above his enclosed neck and shoulders, and through the spikes of pain that bit all along from his ass to this fingertips, the once white light was being took over by a growing black, all consuming in it's horror of realization; Brendon was losing consciousness. 

Lips quiver, painted a pale shade of blue, desperate to get out any words for help, stop, to leave him be. He suddenly missed the boy's presence from across the hall, would kiss them both right there and then if they chose to come back; but they're long gone, and Dallon is close to achieving his needs, and just as sleep overcomes his eyelids, he feels something hot and sticky trickle down the inner of his thigh and a heavy weight topple over, the mattress dipping. The strangling of his throat weakens, the sensation of fingers being peeled from the deep indents of his narrow flesh there stinging as fresh air is returned to the area. And then that deep throb as broken skin starts to churn black. 


End file.
